Tag Archives: French Quarter

Just got back from a 10 day trip to New Orleans to visit family and of course party my brains out. Below is a brief list of the things we did. More details to come in the following days.

What I Did in New Orleans:

Went to the dress rehearsal for the New Orleans Symphony’s performance of the Leningrad Suite. My nephew plays percussion. Mom, my brother the proud Papa, and I had the entire auditorium to ourselves. It was a mind blowing experience. There is nothing like a live symphony for breakfast.

Went to a 2nd line/Super Sunday all black block party. At the bar in the epicenter, Sidney’s, Sis and I were treated to a bucket of Corona Beers and one helluva good time.

Open mike night at Buffa’s Bar on Esplanade. Listened to brother and his guitar friend. They played 3 original songs “LSD and Weed” and “Train Wreck” and I forgot the 3rd.

Dinner at Italian Restaurant Mona Lisa’s.

Lunch at French Market restaurant. Mom and I had a dozen grilled oysters each and Abita Purple Haze beer.

After lunch we went to the flea market in the old French Market which was originally a farmer’s market. It got really touristy for a while, but actual fruits and vegies are starting to reappear.

Discovered a tasty local beer called LA31. Drank copious amounts of it.

Went on a telephone booth photo op session with Sis and Mom. We bar hopped our way to Fayhey’s Irish bar via the old Cosmos bar, on the way back stopped at the popular gay bar on Bourbon Street and went upstairs to the balcony to sip beer and people watch on the street.

Went to Mom’s mail box shop. They have a cute little gift shop. I bought a pot holder for my mom in the shape of a pot leaf. LOL

Walked in the Frenchmen street district of the Faubourg Marigny. The place is full to the rafters with people at night. Tons of Jazz, and other music venues. Big name musicians drop in frequently.

Went dress shopping at Italian Direct Shop. I had a belly full of red beans, rice and smoked sausage so I couldn’t find a dress that I liked that didn’t make me look like a barrel.

Went to the Avenue Bar on St. Charles Avenue. It’s famous for its beer selection. The bartender handed us a clip board with 8 pages of beers listed.

Perused the art shops on Royal Street. Bought a fabulous water color print for my Mom called “Coffee and Gossip.”

Attended an African music festival in Congo square at Armstrong Park. (named of course after Lois Armstrong.)

Went to The Abbey, a bar that’s been on Decatur Street for at least 60 years. It’s a dive that everyone checks at least once on a visit to the French Quarter. Not uncommon to see someone you haven’t seen in 20 years.

Visited the neighborhood bar by Mom’s house, Iggy’s. They tried to feed us. They always do and the food is always delicious. All it costs is the price of a beer.

Rented two Meryl Street movies at the old Royal Street pharmacy. Iron Lady, and Julie, Julia. Royal Pharmacy still has an original old fashioned style soda counter. We are still hoping that someday they will reopen it.

Stopped into Molly’s Irish Pub on Toulouse Street.

Had an afternoon beer at Lafitte’s Blacksmith shop on Bourbon Street

Listened to the Radio Station WWOZ and their pledge drive all week. The talking got a little old but a lot of musicians dropped in at the station and played live to help the fund raising.

Had breakfast at dear old La Paniche. It closed the next day after a 33 year run. ***sniffles***

Went into to Jimmy Buffets bar and restaurant, Margaritaville, on Decatur to get a picture of a dear friend’s art work – a huge sculpture of an airplane flying out of the wall. The artist, Jules, passed away last year, sad to say. He’s been a friend of the family since he was a little boy.

Bought a TV for Mom. We went to Walmart to get a new remote for her old humongous dinosaur TV and there it was…a 32 inch flat screen for only $178. Couldn’t pass it up.

Had a spinach quiche for breakfast at the Crescent Door. It’s an old timey French style pastry shop with lots of tile and mirrors and of course wonderful pastries.

Went to Mary’s hardware store and bought a bicycle pump so we could fix a flat on Mom’s rose cart, and picture hanging supplies to hang to watercolor print we got on Royal Street.

Had pulled pork eggs benedict at the Ruby Slipper in the Faubourg Marigny.

Bought Horse Liniment at a Feed Store in Metairie. It’s great for aches and pains. Mom managed to sprain her thumb somehow and hasn’t been able to play her guitar for almost a month.

Been in New Orleans for the last week. I don’t know why I even bother to bring my laptop there. I rarely find time to write and even if I had the time, there are so many distractions going on that it just doesn’t happen. Also, I don’t feel comfortable leaving my laptop lying around so it gets complicated to drag it out, find a place to plug it in, boot it up, and so on. By the time this is done I’ve forgotten what I was thinking about.

For this trip, I resorted to a low tech solution, pen and paper. It’s easy to whip out a notebook and start jotting down thoughts. There is an added benefit too.

If You Are Drinking to Forget – Please Pay In Advance

The very same people who have no problem reading over your shoulder and even commenting when you’re pounding away on a laptop tend to leave you alone when you’re furiously scribbling away. It must a whole different body language and atmosphere. You are obviously doing one thing – writing. Not playing games, piddling with e-mail or whatever.

Saw a bumper sticker on the wall in a bar near my Mom’s house that intrigued me. It read “New Orleans – The Big Easy? Nothing Big or Easy About It!” The actual city, not including the suburbs, of New Orleans really isn’t that big. And the only thing that is easy there is drinking. Way too easy. Try to do anything besides drinking and you feel like you’re running the gauntlet. The streets are in abysmal shape. An ordinary drive from one place to another makes you consider wearing a mouth guard like football players or boxers wear.

I saw pot holes so big that you couldn’t see the traffic cones put there unless you stood at the edge of the hole and peered down in it. Then there are other places where the shaky ground heaved up the asphalt into a hill large enough that you need a dirt bike to get over them. Driving a car over it is out of the question. Your choices are try to go around or back up and try a different street.

There is a reason that all the graves in New Orleans are above ground in mausoleums. The ground in is in a constant flux and shifting. Most of it was not solid ground at all until developers tried throwing truckloads of oyster shells and other debris out to harden it up long enough to sell a house.

At least with an above ground grave you can keep an eye on it and relocate if need be. I would get ticked of if my coffin popped up in the middle of a street. Imagine thinking you are in your eternal rest only to sit up and see a street car heading straight at you. I would haunt my relatives if it happened to me.

Visiting people who live in or around the French Quarter in New Orleans brings additional challenges. Most of the streets have 2 hour restrictions from 7:00 am to 7:00 pm unless you have a resident sticker. There are meter maids lurking around like buzzards just waiting for you to go one nanosecond over the time limit. A resident zone parking violation costs $80 dollars. Whenever I return from a trip to the Big Easy my tires are covered with neon orange chalk marks. My car was on the watch list obviously, with Texas license plates. You’d think N’Awlins would be a little friendlier with its guests, but that’s not the case if you are locomoting around in an automobile.

Since the buildings are so ancient the electrical wiring is a major hodge-podge. Many people don’t have door bells. If they live in an apartment in the back you have to stand there on the street and yell, hoping they hear you or a neighbor who knows you takes pity and lets you in the gate. The advent of the mobile phone was a god send, allowing you to call someone and ask them to let you in.

The mobile phone trick can be a problem though if you pack up, leave, get on the road and discover you left your phone in the apartment, like I did. I stopped at a convenience store to use a phone and had to call Mr. Hubman at home in Texas to ask for my mother’s phone number because, DUH, her number is in my phone so I never dial it and therefore don’t remember what the number is. We arranged a drive by to retrieve the phone because there was no hope of finding a parking place due to a large funeral at the teeny tiny church on the corner.

So yes, hanging around in New Orleans can be a bit tricky, but it’s a lot of fun once you get the hang of it. It’s definitely on the top of my list of places that I wouldn’t want to live in, but love to visit.

Howdy all and a belated happy Mother’s Day to all you wonderful mothers. You know who you are. I hope you had a wonderful day!

I left town on May 4th for a chick trip to a condo on the beach near Tampa, Florida. Hit the ground running. I found out that sun, sand, Peach Jell-O shots, pina coladas and 5 hysterical giggling women do not mix well with dragging out the old laptop. It was all a hilarious blast and I’ll get into the details in a later post.

Returned from that trip late Wednesday the 9th, vegetated for a day, and turned right around and drove to New Orleans on Friday with Mr. Husband. My nephew graduated from Loyola University with a Bachelor of Arts in Music. The festivities were held in the Super Dome of all places. What a crazy scene. I think many confused it with being at the dome for a Saints football game. The result was the noisiest, craziest graduation I’ve ever been to in my life.

People were screaming, yelling, changing seats constantly, and dragging nachos and soft drinks over the heads of people wearing suits and dresses. The festivities finally escalated to people blasting air horns and blowing on plastic trumpets. I don’t think I ever laughed so hard.

Loyola Graduation

When our beloved nephew, brother, grandson, walked across the stage to receive his diploma we decided “ah what the hell”, and we yelled too. This was a momentous day for our family. No one in recent history, that we can recall, has actually graduated from college. A few of us have attended college, but got too busy making and raising babies to finish.

The evening consisted of bar hopping all over the French Quarter with the usual slight tipsiness. I won’t go into those details, mainly because my memories are a little fuzzy.

Mr. Husband and I got to do a little movie star-gazing while we were at the hotel. At Saturday breakfast we saw Sylvester Stallone loading up at the breakfast buffet. Then Sunday night I was loitering outside the hotel smoking and people watching. A black Chevy Suburban pulled up to valet parking and out climbs Arnold Schwarzenegger, with an escort of 3 body guards or groupies. I’m thinking maybe Sly and Arnie are in town to discuss their upcoming movie I’ve heard some gossip about. Or maybe just to party. Hey, it is New Orleans after all.

For mother’s day we all trooped down to the Old Coffee Pot for brunch. It’s on Rue St. Peter a few doors down from Pat O’Brien’s and has the best breakfast and bloody maries to be had in the city, in my not so humble opinion. After that we ditched the youngins and headed up to the pool on the roof of my hotel. 29 floors up and what a view. Almost scary, we kind of felt like we were going to get blown off at one point.

That evening it’s off to Tipitina’s on Napoleon Street up town for some Cajun dancing. I found out that I’m a bit out of shape. I get swept out on the dance floor almost immediately and by the time I took a break I thought a lung was gonna shoot out my nose like a big chunk of bubble gum. My shoe broke, but I kept on dancing.

Mom managed to dance a few numbers even though she forgot to wear sturdy shoes and had on flip-flops. Cajun dancing is extremely energetic and you absolutely need shoes that stay on your feet. Couldn’t get Mr. Husband to dance, but I intend to work on it if it takes me the rest of my natural life.

So the big family news this time around is another nephew who is 18 and married to a 17-year-old girl with 2 children already. She is pregnant with identical twins!!!! Oh….my….God. It was the talk of the weekend. Those of us with grown children thanked our lucky stars that we are done with all that.

It’s been a wild and crazy couple of weeks and I’m glad to be home. There’s no place like it. I may go to bed for a week. All the better to plan my next trip.

Part of it is fall allergies. But the main problem is preparing for the NaNoWriMo novel challenge in November. Been thinking about story lines, characters. Worrying about losing my mind in the process. Started jotting down ideas on a legal pad a few days ago. Now I have 2 pages full of snippets. Glanced over the list last night and a strange thought came to mind. “Good grief, much of this is from my own experiences.” I could write an auto-biography and no one would know, or believe it. If they did, I ‘d get a one way ticket to the basket weaving academy.

True living in New Orleans for 20 odd years added to the list of oddities. One night in the French Quarter is the rough equivalent of a year in the suburbs. The most exciting things in my life this last month is the bug guy came and sprayed for termites. Well Mr. Husband ate something bad and hurled, but that was a vicarious experience at best. And oh yeah, my girlfriend got a boob job. Now I want one too. But that will pass, I’d want a new pair of boots if she got some. That reminds me, I bought 2 pairs of boots last week. A gal just can’t have too many pairs of boots, in my opinion.

Back to the novel contest. It will be interesting to see if I persevere. I’ve given up on New Year’s resolutions because they are sooo…permanent. I know I can do something for a 40 days because I frequently make some kind of habit change for Lent. One year I gave up the F word. That was an incredible challenge. It made me realize just how much I used that as a go to word when ticked off. During that time I researched more interesting ways to swear. My 2 favorites are “great crucibles of balderdash” followed with “by Thor’s left buttock!” Try saying that to the person who stole your parking place. Doesn’t help, but they might be a little scared of the crazy lady.

One thing that concerns me is that Thanksgiving falls right at the end of this dash to the finish line. Ah Ha, see there I’m making excuses already! Maybe I need to come up with some sort of reward to finish. A trip to Berlin or Moscow. Yea buddy.

I’m sharing this story for 2 reasons, to get my fears out in the open and remind myself that even bad experiences don’t mar a good trip. Here goes.

A long time ago in a Galaxy far far away I was a young an up and coming Punk Rocker. Oh yes, I had purple Pat Benetar hair, wore a spiky dog collar as a necklace and wore all kinds of nifty safety pin jewelry created handcrafted late at night and in my right mind (I swear) from… you guessed it, safety pins.

My mother chose to spend the majority of her adult life in the French Quarter, New Orleans. However, she had temporarily relocated to Key West, Florida. Brother and I and our significant others decided on the spur of the moment to visit her. Punkers do that ya know. And so this story begins.

Late nighters that we were, we all dutifully showed up at crack of dawn at the rendezvous point. We smoked a couple of … “cigarettes”, yea that’s what they were, downed some coffee and piled into brother’s old Chevy, painted flat black, in proper punk fashion. On the road again, I can’t wait to get on the road again….Sorry I broke into song. Away we go down that highway radio blasting, not much money between the 4 of us. Life is good.

Things went well until after dark. It began pouring rain. A torrential downpour of biblical proportions. Sitting in the back seat I began to feel that the old car felt a little more wobbly than usual. I asked my brother to pull over and check the tires. Nothing appeared wrong so we resumed, Eastward Ho! A little later we all felt that something wasn’t right with the car. Brother exited the highway and headed into the parking lot of a strip mall. Pulling into the parking lot it seemed that the car was drunk and wobbling all over the place and we heard a loud thunk and then metal on metal. After a slow motion donut we came to a stop more or less in a parking space and investigated. The right rear tire fell off. It fell OFF. It FELL THE F@@K OFF.

In the downpour we located the tire and only a few of the lug nuts by the dim light in the parking lot. Fortunately there was a tire place in this mall, but it was the middle of the night so we had to wait until morning. At this point I felt it prudent to mention that I had a bottle of champagne in my pack and offered to share. Not like I could sneak sips of it as if it was in a little lady flask. So we cracked the bottle open and passed it around, sitting in the car in our soggy clothes. After some discussion and a further inspection of the tire and the remaining lug nuts we came to a conclusion. The night before, some idiot had stolen the tire, replaced it with a thread bare old tire, and hand tightened the lug nuts. What kind of sick puppy does this? We could have been killed! We would have probably noticed a missing tire even before coffee.

Morning finally came, we put our own spare on the car with shiny new lug nuts and away we go. Later that day the transmission on the car started going out. We rolled into a mechanic shop with a heavy heart and light wallets. The mechanic said that the transmission was shot and it would take eleventy seven million dollars to replace it. We retreated to a diner across the street to discuss our limited options. I remembered an auto mechanic class specifically for women I took years before. One of the topics was the top 4 or 5 things that auto mechanics try to tell you that you need X expensive repair when all you really need is Z inexpensive repair. This was where I learned that transmissions have filters and that some mechanics will tell you that you need a new transmission when all you need is to get that filter cleaned.

Armed with this Eureka moment we went across the street and I explained to the mechanic that replacing the transmission was not an option. I asked him to clean the filter. He looked at me like I had 2 heads and said it wouldn’t help. I asked him to humor me since that was all we could afford. He was probably thinking “how the hell does this addle brained filly know about those dag nabbit filters?” He cleaned the filter and said it was so full of gear shavings that it was a miracle we made as far as we did. We paid him 35 dollars and hit the road again.

We finally made if to Key West. We did have a fun trip with much laughter. Brother’s car lasted a few more years. The transmission never did go out as far as I know. I ended up staying in Key West and met future husband #1. He was a bartender and co-worker at Sloppy Joes, the bar where Ernest Hemingway used to hang out in and drink himself into oblivion. We married and moved to his home town, Boston. But that is another day and many more stories later.

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About me

I’m a woman of a certain age living and loving in Texas. Can’t get real specific because I’m a work in process. I Like to read sci-fi, steampunk and historical fiction, travel all over the planet, stay home on rainy days, go shopping in the middle of the night, and stay be in bed when I should be doing something.